


Bottles and Pills

by ThatSameSong



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Adult Morty Smith, Alternate Universe, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, Friendship, Gen, Gun Violence, Male Friendship, No Romance, One Shot, Other, Protective Rick, Running Away, Swearing, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 23:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18648394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatSameSong/pseuds/ThatSameSong
Summary: Three months ago, Morty Smith ran away from his promising future to pursue an uncertain fate with his drug dealer.  As it turns out, Rick Sanchez--former scientist/professor turned drug dealer--could really use the companionship.  But what can possibly come out of this unlikely--and unhealthy--friendship between two men from very different worlds?





	Bottles and Pills

**Author's Note:**

> Some platonic AU Rick/Morty. If people really like this, I might write more of this AU.

It had been three months since Morty Smith ran away with his drug dealer.

Three months of staring out the window of a half-busted van, watching the countryside pass and muttering enigmatic comments when his high stagnated. When he was lucid—and those times were far and in between—Morty thought about calling his family. Sometimes even the drugs weren't enough to keep away that nagging feeling of guilt. He'd just _left,_ so abruptly that it was like he'd been snatched. He _had_ been snatched, snatched by the best—and consequently worst—high of his entire life.

But Morty was a big boy. He knew what he was doing. He knew how his thoughts rearranged themselves when he stuck his head in the cloud. Morty wasn't an idiot, even though his professors loved to highlight his various problems with focus. He might have been shitty at math, but Morty knew where he went when the drugs kicked in. He could see the line in his head, that thin veil separating reality from his own personal heaven.

Morty tried to keep his moments of lucidity to a minimum. The less he was on the other side, the better. It was kind of ironic how he'd come to think of reality as “The Other Side”, as if it was some kind of alien planet. On some days, Morty worked extra hard to make real life seem like the dream he was waking up from.

In a gas station parking lot, Rick Sanchez passed Morty a paper bag.

Morty held the bag for a moment, like he didn't know what to do with it. The corners of his mouth twitched, as if he was remembering how to smile. This was way too familiar. The last time Rick had given him a paper bag, it had contained a month's worth of whatever the fuck Rick called it. Space Dust? Star Particles? Something space-related. Rick was all about space in a way that Morty just didn't get. Morty got all the space exploration he needed from Rick's drugs. He could go to Mars and be back before Rick had pulled the van into the parking lot of another cheap motel.

“Eat fast,” said Rick. “It's almost dark.”

Morty opened the bag. No drugs of course. It wasn't like Rick needed to be covert anymore. Then again, Rick hadn't exactly been covert in the first place. Morty had seen the guy dealing in broad daylight in front of a fucking university.

“Thanks,” said Morty.

He dug his lunch out of the bag. Some soggy fries and a dry burger. Not exactly deluxe, but better than what he'd had for breakfast. With how the drugs numbed his senses, Morty could choke down almost anything. It was only much later that his body would either reject or reluctantly accept whatever meal Morty had poured into his gullet.

Surprisingly, he actually hadn't vomited that much in the past week. Maybe his body was getting used to the bad food. Maybe it was an effect of the drugs. Or—and Morty was betting on this—maybe Rick had gotten sick of cleaning puke out of his precious van and had decided to stop testing Morty's delicate stomach.

Rick passed Morty a can of soda from the vending machine. He'd gone sleeveless due to the heat, so his tattoos were on full display. The first time Morty had seen them, he'd just gaped until Rick hastily rolled down his sleeves and told Morty to stop being a “nosy little fuck”. Rick's skin art collection was pretty impressive. Skulls, roses, surreal alien creatures, and tons of constellations. Morty never asked, but he suspected Rick had done most of it himself.

“Unity,” said Morty.

He said the name aloud by accident. He'd seen Rick's tattoos plenty of times, but this was the first time he'd noticed an actual word among the chaos. _Unity._ It was a few inches above Rick's wrist. The letters were jagged and harsh, sticking out against Rick's pale skin. It almost didn't look like a tattoo. It looked like Rick had just grabbed a knife and carved the word right into his skin.

Rick yanked his spindly arm back, a tight scowl on his face. He hated it when Morty got all weird about his tattoos. It wasn't as if he'd gotten them just to impress some weasely little shit. But the way Morty reacted, you'd think Rick had some kind of holy text carved into his skin.

“Woman I knew,” he said. “Don't worry about it.”

Bad choice of words. He could almost see Morty's brain perk up, like a dick that had gotten a whiff of something good.

Rick had actually _known_ a woman? Not just known her, but had been into her? Into her enough to tattoo her name on his arm like a stamp of ownership. That didn't sound like the Rick Sanchez who lurked outside of Morty's school in his van and sold his weird drugs to college kids. That didn't sound like the Rick who passed out drunk outside of a strip club and needed Morty to literally carry him back to the van.

“Gee Rick,” said Morty. “She must have been important.”

Rick threw up his hands.

“Look Morty, everything is important until it's fucking not, okay?” he said. “You know what? Those idiots on the radio who preach about true love have no idea what the fuck they're talking about. It's only love until they get their dicks wet. All this soulmate bullshit is just a distraction from the fact that we're all going to die alone.”

Morty retracted his previous statement. Unity must have been _really_ important. She must have touched Rick in a way Morty couldn't hope to understand. But of course Morty couldn't just ask for Rick's life story. If he wanted to actually learn anything, he'd have to wait until Rick was that _perfect_ kind of drunk and high, so out of it that the intoxication basically doubled back on itself. Only then would Rick's tongue loosen enough for Morty to get some history out of him.

“Just eat your food,” said Rick. “If you're not done in ten minutes, I'm leaving without you.”

He dug his flask out of his back pocket and took a long swig. It was never enough. The drugs, the booze. That was why Rick started mixing up his own stuff. When even the harder shit wasn't doing it for him, he realized it was about time he tried his hand at the craft. After all, it was just chemistry.

Morty gave Rick an annoyed look.

“H-Hey, I held your hair when you were puking last night,” he said.

He didn't know why he chose to bring that up. In his indignation, he just started probing for memories. Then again, Morty's recollections from that night were vivid. He remembered the feel of Rick's hair in his hands, the sound of Rick's dinner splattering into the toilet. They'd been behind the scenes at some out-of-the-way club. Rick had wanted to unload some product on a bunch of already shit-faced club-goers. They must have made a bunch of money, because Rick chose to celebrate by getting completely destroyed. The aftermath wasn't pretty. There was a lot of vomiting and Morty was sure that Rick shit himself all over that fancy sofa in the VIP section.

Rick let out a belch. His back to Morty, he tucked his flask back into his back pocket. His mouth still tasted like vomit. All those mints hadn't done shit.

“Yeah, thanks,” he said.

Rick might have drunk the place dry, but Morty hadn't touched a drop of alcohol that night. Booze wasn't really his thing, although he knew that Rick loved to mix both. Rick claimed it created the best and most intoxicating product known to mankind, but Morty didn't want to mess with something like that. The drugs were good enough on their own. No need to invite alcohol to the party.

Even though Rick had said ten minutes, Morty took his time eating. He knew Rick wouldn't leave without him.

As the five minute mark passed, Rick took another sip from his flask and leaned against the van. Even his method of transportation wasn't subtle. A lot of college kids were less than eager to buy drugs from some old guy in a van, but Rick had a reputation to back him up. Plus his van wasn't exactly creepy. It looked like Rick had built it with his own two hands. It had stars and planets painted on the sides, almost a map of the universe.

“You know, you're pretty nice for a drug dealer,” Morty said.

Rick rolled his eyes, shaking his flask in annoyance.

“I'm not a drug dealer,” he said. “I'm a scientist. Watch your mouth.”

Morty smirked, but he went back to his food. Sure, a scientist who tore up the road in his weird space van and sold funky chemicals to people.

“I do a lot more than just get college kids high, Morty,” Rick always said, often brandishing his flask in agitation. “I'm an artist. Sorry if that's too much for your feeble human brain to comprehend.”

Morty shook his head, swallowing another huge mouthful of burger. He had to admit that there was something _otherworldly—_ no pun intended—about Rick Sanchez. Maybe it wasn't obvious when he was hunched over the wheel of his van sleeping off another busy night, but sometimes he just got this _look_ in his eyes. It wasn't something Morty could put into words. It happened a lot when they were stargazing. In fact, stargazing was pretty much the only time Rick seemed to be almost completely at peace.

He let out a mild noise of protest as Rick suddenly snatched the paper bag out of his lap.

“Okay, that's enough,” said Rick. “You're done. Let's go.”

He tossed the paper bag—containing a half-eaten burger and some fries—into a nearby garbage can. He obviously wanted to get back on the road. Staying in one place for too long made him antsy. Rick hadn't taken his medicine that morning, despite mixing up a special batch with the full intention of knocking himself into another dimension.

Being an annoying shit as usual, Morty had started making a fuss about needing to use the bathroom—seriously, couldn't he hold it?--and Rick had too much of a headache to fight back. The detour had completely thrown off any semblance of a schedule. Rick was still aching for his fix. But first they needed to find a motel.

“Hey, can I drive?” said Morty.

He sounded like a teenager asking his dad for a turn behind the wheel. Ever since Morty had first slid into the passenger seat, he'd wanted to take the van for a spin. He'd never driven a real _vehicle_ before. Something big and impressive, something with personality. Morty got excited at the idea of parking his ass in the driver's seat and getting the barest idea of what it was like to be Rick Sanchez.

Rick crossed his arms and laughed a little.

“Maybe when you stop being such a little bitch,” he said.

Watching Rick hop into the van, Morty sighed. Of course. There was no way Rick was ever going to let him actually drive this glorious behemoth. Just like Rick was never going to share his secret recipe, no matter how many times Morty asked.

The latter was a bit more understandable, given that Morty was still technically a customer. Sharing the pot with a paying customer—not that Morty was really _paying_ anymore—was probably bad for business. There probably wasn't a physical recipe to begin with. It was most likely tucked away in Rick's big brain.

As they pulled away, Morty watched the darkening sky. A storm. _Great._ Hopefully they'd be in some flea-infested motel before the clouds broke. Rick seemed used to it, but Morty hated sleeping in the van. He always felt so exposed. Plus the seats were horrendously uncomfortable. How Rick could fall asleep within seconds was a mystery.

Morty wondered what his parents were doing. Had they completely given up on finding him? It wasn't like he'd just _left._ There'd been a note. A rather cryptic note he'd written in less than three minutes, but surely that was enough to stop his parents from worrying about him. Morty wasn't some kid running away from home. He was an adult, fully capable of making his own decisions.

But truth be told, he didn't even remember what the note had said. He remembered placing it on the counter, he remembered glancing over it before Rick hit the horn again, he remembered staring at it from the kitchen doorway. But the words escaped him. Morty didn't know if he'd reassured his folks or caused them to panic even more. Morty wanted to call, but what the hell was he supposed to say?

He tried to redirect his thoughts. Unfortunately, the only other thing on his mind was Rick's tattoo. _Unity._ There had to be a story behind that name. A long story.

“There's this woman named Jessica,” said Morty.

Rick let out an exasperated sigh, one hand gripping the wheel while he ran the other through his messy hair. _Fuck._ This was what he got for traveling with a college kid.

“Let me guess,” said Rick. “You helped her with her homework, walked her home, and even opened the door for her, but she still didn't drop her panties. Boo fucking hoo. Maybe if you weren't such a whiny shit, you might have actually had a chance.”

Morty ignored Rick's assessment of his love life. It was completely wrong anyway. He hadn't gotten nearly that far with Jessica. They'd mostly just talked in the hallway between classes. Sometimes he made her laugh, sometimes she made him laugh. It was nice and Morty knew—or at least hoped—that Jessica looked forward to these little interactions as much as he did. But he doubted she knew how he really felt. They'd met when Morty was still an awkward teenager and he'd never really grown out of that part of his life.

“She's smart and pretty and really great,” said Morty. “I kind of miss her, you know? She's probably wondering where I am. I think she might have been my only real friend.”

Rick laughed.

“So you left her to run around with some old man in a van?” he said. “Do you have any idea how dumb that sounds? I don't even know this Jessica, but I'm pretty sure I'd trade gas station bathrooms for getting my dick wet.”

Morty leaned his head against the window. Even in his own head, it sounded crazy. Hearing it out loud made it sound like drug-induced hysteria or something. But although Morty had been completely high when he first made the decision, it had stuck even after the drug wore off.

Ironically, he never asked Rick why he wanted to get the hell out of town in the first place. By the time it seemed more relevant, Morty was already hefting his duffel bag into the back of the van. Then again, this question went mutually unasked. They didn't really need to know each others' reasons for leaving.

“Is that how you felt about Unity?” said Morty.

Rick glanced at Morty, his eyebrow raised.

“She was nice, we had a thing, the end,” he said. “What more do you want from me?”

Morty grinned. That was already more than he'd expected out of Rick. So there'd been a _thing._ A thing that had resulted in Rick tattooing her name on his arm. Definitely more than a one night stand or even a one-week love affair. Whatever Unity and Rick had, it wasn't just a fling.

“I bet she still thinks about you,” said Morty.

Rick tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his expression turning hard and cold.

“No, she doesn't,” he said. “Just drop it, Morty. Seriously. We're not talking about this.”

His hands shook. _Fuck._ He needed his drugs. All of them. The pills, the needles, everything. _Ugh._ What was Morty's problem? Why was he so fucking nosy? Rick could have sworn Morty wasn't this nosy when they first met. Something about traveling had changed the guy. Morty just couldn't stop sticking his nose into Rick's business. _Dammit Morty._

Rick reached over and opened the glove compartment. His eyes only half on the road, he dug out a bottle of pills and popped the cap. He actually smiled at the familiar rattle of those little blue capsules. Almost out, but he didn't care. It should be enough to tide him over. It might impair his driving skill, but what the hell? Rick was willing to take the risk. If they got into an accident, it was basically Morty's fault.

He popped three of the capsules into his mouth. Rick wanted to take more, but he knew his limit. He held the bottle out to Morty and shook it like a rattle.

Morty shoved the bottle away, a tight smile on his face. He wasn't sure Rick should be taking those while he was driving. In fact, he was ninety-percent sure that it was a bad idea. But he knew he couldn't say anything. Nothing would convince Rick otherwise.

About five miles later, they came across a motel. From the outside, it looked pretty sleazy. Morty didn't even want to speculate about what was going on behind those doors. It couldn't have been anything good. Probably worse than anything Rick Sanchez did on a daily basis. As usual, Morty didn't like the look of the place and he was tempted to mention it. But it was either the motel or the van.

“Oh geez,” said Morty.

He got out of the van first. He just stood there, shivering in the cold air. He could have sworn it had been late afternoon when they left, but now it was more like late evening. But the time didn't really matter. It was late and all Morty could think about was being indoors. The weather had taken a very unexpected turn.

Rick seemed immune to the sudden change in temperature. He stepped out of the van and stretched his bony limbs, his eyes slightly glazed. He loved his van, but sometimes he wanted a bed. More importantly, he wanted his drugs. His _real_ drugs, not the weak shit that came in capsules.

The motel room was pretty standard. Two beds, a television, a window, and the lingering smell of sin. At least it was clean. The last one had been a trash heap. Morty hadn't gotten a wink of sleep that night, mainly because he was certain he'd wake up crawling with bugs. Of course Rick had just dropped off immediately. High or not, nothing about these motels phased him.

Morty tossed his duffel bag on the bed. The bag was all he had, other than the clothes on his back. He hadn't been too creative with his packing. It was mostly a bunch of clothes.

Rick instantly disappeared into the bathroom to take his “medicine”. Morty would have asked for some too, but he knew Rick didn't want to be disturbed. He could tell that Rick wasn't in the best mood, all thanks to Morty's earlier questioning session. Once the drugs loosened him up, he might actually be willing to talk. Morty wasn't even sure he wanted a hit in the first place. It sounded fun, but he felt like he should just go to bed.

Morty stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone. The lighting in the room was atrocious—basically just one dusty light bulb tasked with illuminating the entire room—but the glow of the phone helped. He was surprised it still worked. Just yesterday, he'd thrown it against a wall in frustration because he wasn't getting any bars.

He wasn't sure why that particular instance of having no reception had made him so angry. Maybe it was because it was one of the few times Morty had been determined to call someone— _anyone—_ from his old life. But despite Morty's outburst, the phone seemed to be in working order. He even had bars.

Morty's hand shook. He wanted to call his parents. He really did. At the very least, he wanted to call his mom and assure her that he hadn't been kidnapped. But what else could he tell her? What could he possibly say after literal months of silence? She would be angry, maybe frantic. She'd be accusatory, maybe even hateful. Morty didn't think he could deal with that. No amount of drugs could prepare him for the inevitable fallout.

He decided to call someone else instead. Someone who might at least slightly understand.

“Hey Jessica,” he said. “I don't know when you'll get this message. I just wanted to say that I'm fine and I'm sorry for not calling. I promise I'll make it up to you. Maybe we can meet up or something. We'll have a lot to talk about.”

He hesitated, but only for a second.

“Um, goodbye,” he said.

Morty hung up before he could make an idiot of himself again. He had a habit of doing that when it came to Jessica. He was surprised she even hung out with him, let alone had given him her phone number. Morty had only called her maybe once since she'd given him her number. He didn't know why he was so reluctant to call. Maybe he was afraid Jessica would regret granting him another line of communication. Well, at least Morty had finally grown a pair and actually called her.

Rick finally came out of the bathroom. He flopped down on one of the beds, letting out a long sigh of content.

“Aaaaaand.... _there it is,”_ he said.

He closed his eyes. Rick could already feel the world around him bleeding out. Nothing mattered anymore. He was on a spaceship, heading for some distant cosmos. He was already forgetting whatever the fuck Morty had been so interested in earlier. Something about his tattoos? It didn't matter. Rick let out a slightly dazed little laugh, his eyes closed and his arms spread to either side of him like a pair of wings. When he spoke, he could hear his voice echoing somewhere deep in his brain.

“Hey Morty,” he said. “You should try this.”

Morty sat down on his own bed. Tempting offer, but he really wanted to sleep. Time was passing too quickly. Things might have been going in slow motion for Rick, but Morty could hear the seconds ticking away.

“No thanks,” he said.

Rick let out a slow laugh.

“Come on,” he said. “It's better than pussy. I promise.”

That was probably accurate, although Morty had more personal experience with drugs than the other. But he found that he was actually kind of tired of getting high. Wasn't that basically all he'd been doing for the past months? Just getting high, coming down from being high, and waiting impatiently to get high again? It was so fucking repetitive.

Rick did it without thinking, going through a routine that must have lost its substance a long time ago. But Morty needed a little more than that.

Morty went to get a drink from the machine. Something cold to take the edge off. Well worth Morty's last dollar. He would have grabbed a bottle of water or something, but he needed something sugary and bad for him.

As Morty popped a buck into the machine, he considered all the cash Rick was squirreling away for himself. What was Rick even planning to do with that money? Settle down somewhere? That actually sounded kind of nice. They'd definitely earned their retirement. Could have bought a tiny house in a small town, somewhere a little bit off the grid.

The machine clunked faintly. Morty just stood there awkwardly, waiting for it to dispense his drink. He wished it wasn't so fucking cold out there.

But would Rick _want_ to settle down? Give up his life of pumping drugs to college kids? When Morty first met Rick, Rick had told him one thing that stuck: that this was his life and no one was going to take that away from him. Rick had credentials. Graduated top of his class, blazed through a series of college courses, taught for a while.

Morty had extracted at least thirty years worth of history from Rick during one of his less lucid moments. And those thirty years alone were enough to make Morty's head spin. The stuff before that was probably even more wild.

“ _You know what intelligence is like, Morty?”_ Rick had said. _“Of course you don't. You're a dumbass. But me? I know how it is, Morty. Being th_ _e_ _smartest man in the world. But no one gives a shit, Morty. No one gives a single shit.”_

The machine finally spat out a can of soda. Morty heard it roll all the way down to the bottom, thumping against the sides. The machine vomited out a few coins, each one clinking loudly in the small tray.

Morty knelt down and reached into the machine. The metal was smooth and cold. He shuddered, an involuntary reaction to the biting night air. Why the hell was it so _frigid_ outside? Felt like winter in the middle of May. Morty hoped that beat-up old heater in their motel room actually had some juice in it.

He started to straighten up, but Morty stopped when he felt something jabbing him. Something stiff and metallic, not unlike the inside of the soda machine. Morty could feel it digging into the small of his back, jabbing him right through his shirt. Instinctively—like he'd done this before—Morty raised both hands, holding the can aloft at an absurd angle. _Fuck._

He heard a voice right by his ear. Not deep and commanding, nor particularly authoritative. No, this wasn't the voice of someone who knew what they were doing, someone calculated. This wasn't Rick on his best days. The voice shook and wavered.

“Don't move,” it said.

Morty's heart jumped into his throat. He knew it before his mind had even gone over the facts. Knew it before the next words came. The thing someone had jammed into Morty's back was a gun. _Shit._

“ _Don't fucking move or I'll blow your fucking head off,”_ the guy said.

Morty almost cracked a joke, almost asked how that was even possible. Couldn't exactly blow someone's head off through their spine, right? But Morty kept his mouth shut. Knew the guy wouldn't appreciate his fatalistic sense of humor.

“No trouble,” said Morty.

His mind raced. Morty knew Rick kept a shotgun under the driver's seat. But there was no way Morty could get to it. And if he called for help—assuming Rick wasn't too blazed to hear him—Morty was basically signing his own death certificate.

“Empty your pockets,” said the guy. “ _Now.”_

Morty immediately dropped the cans of soda. He started digging through his pockets, praying he'd grabbed more than that dollar for the soda. He was sure he had a few bucks on him, maybe a lottery ticket or some loose change.

But the more he dug around, the more Morty realized what a dumbass he was. Of course he'd only taken what he needed for the soda. Little tip Morty got from Rick: don't wander around with massive stacks of cash in your pockets. Not that Morty had this problem often. He'd probably blown the last of his own personal cash on shitty snacks and pointless souvenirs, like a little kid on vacation.

“L-Look, man,” said Morty. “My friend's got some drugs, some real good stuff...”

Numbers-wise, Morty had no idea how much Rick's personal stash was worth. Given the quality and the fact it was all homemade, probably a few thousand at least. And of course Rick was the only human being on the planet who knew how to make it, so that had to up the value. But how much was Morty willing to trade? Did he really care about Rick getting pissed at him?

The guy laughed. He sounded jittery and desperate. He was definitely high on something, something bad. A thousand times worse than anything Morty would have messed with.

“I know you have it, man,” said the guy. “I know you have some fucking money.”

Morty turned out his empty pockets, but he knew it wasn't going to make a difference. They'd reached the point where his lack of cash sounded like a punchline.

“My friend...,” Morty started.

He was afraid to move, afraid to say the wrong thing. But given the situation, what was the _right_ thing?

“J-Just let me go,” said Morty. “For a minute. I'll pop up to the room, grab some money, a-and..”

He felt the gun press even harder into his back. Morty whimpered, his eyes filling with tears. He wish he had Rick's shotgun. Or Rick's switchblade. Or Rick's ability to give zero shits at any given moment. _Something._

Morty heard a door slam open. Someone was emerging from one of the rooms behind them.

“The fuck?”

Morty almost fell to his knees at the familiar voice. _Thank god._ Morty had never been so happy to hear Rick sounding especially pissed off. Morty didn't even care that he was still terrified. He didn't give a shit that he'd just emptied his bladder, soaking the inside of his pants with urine. Morty didn't care that he felt like a pathetic baby, standing there with a gun in his back and pee running down his leg.

He felt the gun withdraw from his back. Morty almost burst into relieved tears.

“Rick...,” he began.

Morty wasn't sure what he meant to say. Maybe an apology, maybe something about how grateful he was. It could have gone either way. Morty just wanted to hear Rick's voice again, to know everything was alright.

The smile froze on Morty's face. He felt it before he heard it, his eardrums seemingly lagging behind the rest of him. Felt the impact in slow motion, an agonizing second stretched into what felt like several minutes. It started small, almost innocent.

It felt like the one time Morty bumped his arm against a door frame. But only for a split second. Then it was roaring through him, tearing through him like a knife through butter. Ripping him apart from the inside. And somehow Morty was still standing, still staring straight ahead as the pain completely jammed his senses.

He wobbled on his feet, his thoughts turning to static. Morty could hear Rick shouting, could hear it at the back of his head. Footsteps. Shouting. Gunshots. Pulsing in Morty's head.

“Morty! _SHIT.”_

Morty could hear the desperate panic in Rick's voice. It didn't even sound like Rick. It sounded like someone Morty used to know. Someone who actually cared about his well-being.

He clutched at his shoulder. Morty could feel something sticky and wet, something seeping out between his fingers. Blindly—his mind a haze—Morty tried to hold it back, to keep that sticky wetness inside his body. But it kept coming, flowing out between his fingers. Morty squeezed harder, or at least tried to. His grip was getting looser and his vision was starting to run like ink on paper.

Before Morty collapsed, he felt something against him. Felt arms—scrawny but strong—wrapped around him. And for that brief second before everything went dark, Morty felt true comfort for the first time in months.

“ _Shit shit shit shit. Morty, can you hear me? Stay with me, you little bastard. You hear me, Morty? Come on...”_

* * *

 Morty half-expected to wake up in the passenger seat of Rick's van. But when his eyes fluttered open, all Morty could see was white.

He squinted, momentarily overwhelmed by the lights. Okay, that definitely wasn't the sky and those sure as shit weren't clouds. It looked more like a ceiling. A plain white ceiling about four or five feet above Morty's head.

Morty had woken up in a lot of bad places, but this was probably the most baffling. Everything was so pristine, like someone had gone over every surface with a sponge and a bucket of military-strength cleaning liquid. And unlike most of the places Morty had woken up in, the room didn't smell like piss or human feces. It also wasn't a jail cell or the back room of a sleazy bar.

“Rick?” he said.

It was pure instinct at this point. Pretty much Morty's go-to survival skill. He'd known from the beginning that he wasn't cut out for this kind of life. Maybe Rick could handle it, but Morty was barely holding on by his fingernails. Morty couldn't imagine how dead he'd be if Rick wasn't almost always within earshot.

 _Dead._ The memories came flooding back, forcing Morty to relive those few moments.

Morty clutched at his shoulder. He felt bandages. Fresh bandages. He flinched, but the pain wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been. Morty was surprised he could even move his shoulder, let alone that he didn't pass out from the residual agony alone.

So that guy really had shot him. And somehow Morty hadn't bled to death.

“Rick?” he said again.

This time Morty actually looked around. He instantly spotted Rick. It would have been pretty hard to miss him. Rick was camped out in a chair right next to the bed, his arms hanging limply off the sides and his head tilted back. Fast asleep. And mercifully alive.

At the sound of Morty's voice, Rick jerked his head up. He clutched his forehead, his face settling into that familiar pissed-off expression.

“Guess you're awake,” said Rick.

To his credit, he sounded less pissed off than he looked. He was probably just mad that Morty had interrupted his nap. Morty couldn't blame him. They both needed some sleep.

“Where are we?” said Morty.

Rick grunted. He was a bit paler than usual, but he otherwise he looked pretty okay.

“Hospital,” he said. “Place where they don't ask questions.”

Morty didn't particularly like the sound of that, but he let it go. Honestly, he was just grateful that Rick hadn't dumped him in a ditch somewhere. The fact that he was alive and relatively okay—that _both of them_ were okay—was making Morty dizzy. He had a million questions, most of them concerning how much of the stuff in his head was real.

He remembered the soda machine, the mugger, getting shot, and a series of blurry images. He remembered Rick standing over him, Rick frantically pressing something against him, Rick barely holding it together. That burning pain almost off-set by the genuine panic and fear in Rick's voice. The kind of panic and fear Rick usually saved for his infrequent night terrors.

“What happened to the guy?” said Morty.

Rick leaned forward and spread his legs, arms dangling over the front of the chair and his lap.

“He's gone, Morty,” he said. “No worries.”

Morty didn't press. A part of him wanted to know all the grisly details, but a bigger part of him wanted it to be another one of Rick's big secrets. He'd seen Rick angry—truly angry—only once in his life and that was enough. Even bullets weren't enough to deter an enraged Rick Sanchez.

Morty leaned back on his comfortable pillow and sighed. He was sick of this road trip. Sick of pretending he didn't give a shit about his parents or Jessica. Sick of wondering if they'd put up Missing posters or blasted his photo all over social media. Morty knew the cops didn't give a crap, seeing as he was an adult. Capable of making his own decisions. So why did Morty feel like a Grade-A dumbass right now?

He gingerly touched his bandaged shoulder. _Oh._ That's why Morty felt so monumentally dumb. College had gotten pretty rough at times, but he'd never feared for his life while grabbing a soda from the machine. Had never felt a gun pressed against him.

Morty had unknowingly taken that for granted. But he didn't belong here, did he? On the road, staying in questionable motels and sleeping in weird creepy places. As Rick had said one of the first times they talked, Morty was just a “privileged college kid with a shitty degree and a white picket fence in his future”.

So why the fuck had he thrown that away? Just tossed away his promising future for the sake of, what? Rick Sanchez, the last guy on Earth who'd earned that courtesy? _What the hell?_

“You should go home,” said Rick.

Morty looked at Rick, surprised that he was saying exactly what Morty was thinking. But of course Rick didn't need a wide-eyed companion. Rick had made it very clear that this was a rare moment of surrender, a relax of the usual rules for Morty's sake. If Morty had come to him at any other time, he probably would have been laughed at.

But that was what made it so compelling, right? So wonderful and exciting? The idea that Morty was going against the grain for once in his life, that he'd deviated from the path. And Rick—always living for himself and never for other people—was the perfect guru for Morty's journey.

“I...I..,” said Morty. “Aw, geez.”

It sounded so nice. Seeing his parents again. Actually talking to Jessica. But would any of them trust him again? Would _Jessica_ trust him? Trust him not to run off the moment her back was turned? And could Morty trust _himself_ not to do that?

“I don't think I can,” said Morty.

Rick spat out a bitter laugh, his eyebrow raised.

“You shitting me, Morty?” he said. “You're the fucking, the fucking golden boy. Of course you can go home. Look at me. Druggy McScientist Drug-Pants. But you? You've got a fucking future.”

Morty folded his hands over the covers, his eyes downcast. A future? Yeah, he could see that. Could see exactly where his life was heading. And up until he met Rick, Morty didn't think he had much of a choice. He was—as Rick liked to say—a “chicken-shit”.

“Really?” said Morty.

Rick threw up his arms, his eyebrow furrowed in anger.

“Seriously?” he said. “ _This_ is what you want, kid? You think this is a fucking vacation? You know how you just got _shot,_ dipshit? Imagine that, but every night for the rest of your fucking life.”

Rick snorted.

“You think I wanted this?” he said. “No, Morty. I chose this because I don't give a shit. You see the stars, kid? You see them up there? The universe doesn't give a flying crap about any of us, Morty. It's big and endless and scary. And maybe I'm too much of a fucking asshole to deal with it. Maybe that's why I saved your dumb ass tonight.”

He got to his feet. Rick started to reach forward, like he was going to grab Morty's shoulders and shake him. But then he remembered the bullet wound and backed off, frowning.

“You've got a future,” he said. “Trust me. You don't want this. _No one_ wants this.”

Morty looked into Rick's eyes. Pale and kind of permanently dazed—but somehow still working—after years of self-sustained drug use. No, Morty could confidently say that no one sane wanted Rick's life. No one wanted whatever drama had gone down with Unity, the detachment, the existential musings. No one wanted to be Rick Sanchez, especially if they were on a path to be someone a thousand times better.

“I'm an adult,” said Morty. “I can do what I want.”

Rick folded his arms and rolled his eyes.

“You're a fetus, Morty,” he said.

He threw up his arms again.

“You know what?” said Rick. “Fine. Like I fucking care what you do. Just don't come crying to me the next time you get shot.”

Morty smiled. Was he making the wrong decision? Definitely. Did it bother him? No, not really. Because whatever bad end Morty was hurling towards, at least he knew it was his choice and his alone. Maybe he'd change his mind once they got on the road again, but that sounded pretty nice to Morty.

And he _was_ going to call Jessica again. Call and tell her everything. Well, almost everything. Morty might leave out the part about him being shot. But Jessica needed to know the full story. Morty's parents were another matter entirely. He wasn't sure how the hell he was going to get through to them.

Actually, Morty had a pretty good idea. He _wasn't_ going to get through to them. His parents were never going to get it, especially his mom. But Morty didn't give a shit. _Really._ How was he supposed to explain to his parents that Rick needed him? That Rick needed someone to remind him about empathy?

If there was anyone who needed a charismatic partner for an endless road trip, it was Rick fucking Sanchez.


End file.
